Stuck
by SteveGon
Summary: A Tale of the Zombie Apocalypse.


Poke Jackson was fucked. Butch and Sundance kind of fucked. Charlie Brown by way of Stephen King kind of fucked. Slim Pickens riding the bomb kind of fucked. No, not quite that. He was Grand Guignol, kingdom come, Colonel Kurtz gazing into the abyss kind of fucked. Yeah, that was it.

Poke's real name was Peter but he'd been called Poke since he was little because he'd always been pokey. Never in a hurry to do anything. He could live with Poke. There were worse nicknames. Didn't matter now anyway. Now that the dead were walking the earth

Poke was trapped in his third floor apartment and had been since the crisis began. Crisis? World-ending shitstorm was more like it. All he had to do was look out his window. But every time he did the zombies were still there.

Poke had been excited to get the apartment. Getting away from his parents was a big deal. They weren't bad parents he supposed, but they didn't understand him. Always telling him to get out of the house and do something instead of hiding in his room watching movies all the time. Well, it wasn't like he was a hermit. He had a full-time job at Clark's Department Store. Had a small circle of friends that included his roommate John Sheets. It was John who had gotten them the apartment.

"It's a great place!" John had told him. "The building belongs to my uncle Todd and he'll let us rent it cheap." The apartment was in fact, pretty cool. It overlooked Main Street and was across from Huyck's Art Theater. Now and forever showing 2001: A Space Odyssey. With the undead shambling under the marquee it made for an ironic tableau. Anyway, two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, bathroom. Not too shabby for $400 a month, utilities included. So what if they had to walk up three flights of stairs?

Now Poke sat on his bed, head down, fingers locked over his nape. What the hell was he going to do? He'd been at work when it all started. His manager Mr. Ossorio had been showing him how to place an order for men's clothing. Ossorio was a nice old guy. He'd taken over after Mr. Clark died. The phone rang and Ossorio picked it up. His expression had changed from genial to concerned in the span of a few heartbeats as he listened to the caller. He hung up and told Poke to assemble and bring the other employees back to his office. Outside a tornado siren had started blaring.

"We close early." Ossorio had told them. His Spanish accent was colored with worry. "There is fight in the streets. People have sickness. You must go home and be safe." And so they had left. Left the sad figure of their boss alone in his office. Clark's was all the widower Ossorio had and Poke imagined that he was still there keeping vigil. Poor Mr. Ossorio.

"My mom says this is really bad." Stacy Tomomatsu had told him, fidgeting with her cellphone. Stacy worked the perfume counter at Clark's. She always smelled wonderful. She'd had to practically holler over the noise the tornado siren was making. Stacy and Poke were standing outside the store. An ambulance roared down the street in front of them, its siren adding to the din. Stacy had offered Poke a ride home but he knew she lived in the opposite direction so he told he'd be okay, that he didn't want to put her out. That made him laugh. Of course he wouldn't have minded if she'd put out. Stacy was a hottie. Poke loved Asian girls.

The cops were out in force and that made Poke feel safe. Plus it was only two blocks from Clark's to his apartment. In that short traverse he'd witnessed two fights, both of them ignored by the police. The people doing the fighting did look sick, all grunting and bloodied and yelling. Poke had skulked home after that. He knew he'd be lousy in a fight. Actually he'd never even been in a fight.

John was already at the apartment when Poke got there. He was packing his things and was visibly shaken. Poke had thought nothing could frighten his roommate. John was always so snarky and unflappable. So confident.

"Man, I'm outta here." John had said. "And you'd better do the same. Go home to your folks." He told Poke he'd left his job as a janitor at Willard General. Things were bad there. Sick people were rushing in like lemmings but half the staff had bailed and the rest were simply overwhelmed. Some of the doctors had looked really scared. Whatever was going around was going around fast and it was making people crazy. And that wasn't the worst part.

Poke didn't know much about diseases but he'd once read a book on the subject out of morbid curiosity. He knew no disease in history had ever been as virulent or spread as fast as the showstopper that had revived the dead. Revived the dead. Jesus Christ. There were fucking zombies in the streets.

This wasn't the movies. Scientists hadn't figured out a cure in an hour. They thought it was a virus but they weren't sure of the source or the vector. There just hadn't been enough time. The power had went off after three days so Poke's knowledge of the pandemic was limited to what he had learned from a few days worth of frenzied news reports.

Poke wasn't religious but maybe, after all, there was a God. Maybe the walking horrors outside were a display of his wrath. The human race was fucked up and could use a good culling. Poke knew that. But he also realized that he was willing to accept any explanation so long as it put things in terms he could understand. Millions of people around the world thought the same. Millions more simply lost it, their madness only making things worse. At least Poke had just cowered in his apartment. He hadn't hurt so much as a fly.

Poke had called his parents right after John left. They hadn't answered so he thought it best to stay where he was. They would come for him eventually. He wished he had a car. Or the bicycle he'd left at home. He wasn't walking anywhere now.

Meanwhile his apartment, while relatively safe from the lurching monsters outside, was woefully understocked for the apocalypse. He had a small supply of canned goods, some Ramen noodles, and a few frozen dinners. And six bottles of water.

The city water supply had stopped flowing right after the power went out. Poke really hadn't figured on either happening. He'd watched the crisis unfold on television but figured that things would turn out okay in the end. The news reports had said to stay home so he had. His parents hadn't shown up but that was no big deal-they were likely staying put too. They probably thought he was safe. Poke was a little concerned when he couldn't get a signal for his cellphone but that happened sometimes. End of the world service was spotty in Willard and the shopping malls were all no doubt closed.

Poke hated being so isolated. His cellphone was now useless. John had taken his laptop with him and with it went Poke's only other connection to the internet. Losing power and water was the last straw. (At least that damn tornado siren had finally been silenced!) It was then that he decided to leave. Poke was certain that everyone else in his building had already left. They hadn't listened to the news reports or the National Guard. Did the authorities really expect the masses to obey them come armageddon?

The day after he lost power and water Poke got out of bed. He would venture outside to look for help. Previously the streets had been owned by the police and the National Guard. The cops and the soldiers had been a welcome sight, a reassurance that things were under control. But their numbers had dwindled day by day and when Poke looked out the window that morning he saw only the walking dead. Not many but enough to give him pause. He knew what they could do.

The news reports had stated quite explicitly that the dead people were attacking their living counterparts. They were generally slow but if they sighted prey they quickened up and attacked with ferocity. They ate the living.

You had to destroy the brain. That was what the news reports said of the zombies. Shoot them in the head or dash their brains out with a club. But what if you didn't own a gun? Poke had never even fired one let alone owned one. There was Hinzman's Gun Shop across town but pistols and rifles were out of Poke's price range. That much he knew about guns. Hinzman's was likely a madhouse anyway, even if he could get there and come up with the money. Crazy people plus lots of guns was bad news.

Poke now had no desire to go out among the hungry dead. He had no weapons save a few cheap pots and pans and a set of wobbly kitchen knives. Dollar Store bargains his ass. What else was there? Crappy furniture that threatened to break when you sat on it. Chintzy lamps. The boards supporting his mattress were too long and weren't heavy enough to use as effective cudgels. Ditto for the two-by-fours in the walls, even if he could break through the drywall and pry them loose. And he didn't have any tools with which to loosen the piping in the walls. Everything else was either too heavy, too unwieldy or too small. He couldn't leave. He was stuck.

Maybe he should have chanced it Poke thought. It had been over a week since he'd decided to stay. He hadn't seen any of his neighbors since the beginning of the epidemic. As far as he knew he was the only soul still in his building. There had been some shuffling noises outside his door a few days earlier but he'd been too frightened to shout out. Probably one of those things. Instead he quietly pushed the couch against the door and thought about praying.

Poke was thirsty. He'd hadn't figured on the water being shut off so he hadn't conserved any. He'd already finished up the bottled stuff by the time the water stopped running. Luckily it had rained hard one afternoon and he'd stuck a pan out the window. That had lasted him several days. After that he'd been reduced to drinking the water from the canned vegetables in the cupboard. He hated green beans but that green bean-flavored water had been sweet. But the cans hadn't lasted very long.

He couldn't believe he'd done it without throwing up. The water in the toilet. Poke had been so thirsty he'd caved in and drank what he could from it. First the tank, then the bowl. He'd probably catch typhus or typhoid or dysentery or whatever. He couldn't remember which. Didn't matter he supposed, not with a zombie virus or germ floating around. Luckily he'd only urinated in it once after the water shut off. A little toothpaste mixed in with the water had made it somewhat palatable. It was still disgusting, even though he knew the urine itself was sterile. After that he'd pissed and shit in a cooking pot. No need to stink the place up.

There were corpses walking around outside and Poke was worried about the smell of piss and shit? That was hilarious. He'd taken to doing his business in a pot and dumping it out his bedroom window into the alley below. He'd once scored a bullseye on a lone zombie. "Eat it you rotting fuck!" Poke had screamed at the hapless thing. That had been a mistake. His cursing had drawn dozens of zombies to his building. They waited outside now, an enraptured audience waiting for their star to make an appearance.

They were hungry Poke knew. Hungry for him. He was hungry too. He'd polished off the last of the food three days earlier. Thawed and unheated frozen dinners tasted like shit. And eating dry Ramen noodles had only increased his thirst. A double-edged sword that had been. Poke wondered how long it'd be before he would be willing to eat human flesh. How long would it be before he began to wonder how the dead tasted? Ha ha!

There was a commotion outside. A pack of feral dogs was running through the crowd of zombies. The dead were too slow to catch the flitting beasts and the dogs seemed to have no interest in eating zombie flesh. They looked vicious though, no doubt starving as well. Another hazard to contend with should he decide to leave. Ripped apart by the living dead or by savage dogs, either way would not be a good way to go out.

Poke's hunger had made him weak. The opportunity to leave had passed him by. Even with a full belly he doubted he'd be brave enough to face the zombie horde that waited below. He'd never had to face any kind of real emergency. He'd probably freeze up as soon as he got outside. A sitting duck. The dead would devour him with relish. Poke wanted to scream but his mouth was too dry.

Pressing his forehead against the window Poke's fingers scrabbled the wall on either side. He reeked of old sweat. It had been hot and humid the last few days and the apartment was a sweatbox. The dead outside hadn't fared any better. Soaked with rain then dried out in the heat, their filthy, bloodied clothing looked comically starched. This was especially funny given their herky jerky movements. They also smelled worse than him. Their rotten odor wafted up and assaulted him even through the glass. Had he really imagined taking a bite out of one of them?

It was hot now but what would he do when the snows came? "Living in a zombie winter wonderland!" laughed Poke to himself. He had no matches or lighters and no place for a fire except for maybe the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. He would freeze. Did zombies freeze? Be cool if they did. Then he could run out among them and tip them over. Watch them shatter like that liquid metal robot in Terminator 2. Poke the zombie smasher, at your service! Well, frozen zombies probably didn't break apart like that but it was an amusing thought.

Poke contemplated suicide but his options were limited. Jumping out the window might do it but then again it might not. He imagined lying broken on the ground, easy prey for the living dead. What if they didn't eat all of him? Left enough of him to re-animate? Poke did not want to end up some hobbled, half-eaten ghoul, left to the elements and slowly but surely disintegrating.

How about slashing his wrists or drinking some of that drain cleaner under the sink? But then he'd be stumbling around dead in his apartment for eternity. Luckily he didn't have a rope with which to hang himself. Hanging zombie Poke! Swinging on the end of a rope until his neck decayed enough for his head and body to separate. It would suck to be just a zombie head, unable to play like all the other zombies. He was going insane wasn't he?

He had to leave. Had to chance it. But he was just too goddamned chicken. Cluck cluck cluck! Poke the Chicken! General Tso's chicken from Yip's down the street sounded delicious. But there would be no more General Tso's. No more pizza from Bruno's either. No more lusting after Stacy. No more movies at Huyck's. No more Spider-Man comic books. He'd once read a story where Spider-Man turned into a zombie. How funny was that? He knew he was going nuts. Crack him open! Nuts like that girl in the Polanski film, left alone in her apartment. She'd had daddy issues. He had zombie issues. Trump that bitch!

A column of smoke rose in the distance. Poke watched it through the smudged glass of his window. Halperin's across the river must have gone up. All sorts of nasty chemicals in that place. Toxic sludge in the river. Toxic fallout. The world was truly finished wasn't it? He thought of all the nuclear power plants left unattended. Ka-fuckin' boom! He giggled at the thought of radioactive zombies inheriting the Earth.

Poke picked up one the cheap lamps that had sat at either end of his couch before he'd moved it. The lamp had cost him $9.99 at the Dollar Store. Oh well. He chucked it out the window. The glass shattered and the lampshade caught on shards protruding from the frame. It hung half inside, half outside the window, wavering, trying to decide if it wanted to stay or go. Poke now had the attention of the dead.

He felt like Tony Montana from the movie Scarface. "Come get me you stupid fucks!" he rasped. "You stupid fucking dead bastards!" Poke wanted to cry but there were no tears to be had. His body was too dehydrated. He grabbed the lamp's twin and flung it at the door of his apartment. The thin, ceramic base exploded. Falling back against a wall he sobbed. Still the tears wouldn't come.

Thump! What was that?

The flimsy apartment door jostled in its frame. Poke tittered. They sure as hell were coming to get him. Fucking zombies. They were weak individually but their numbers made them strong. That's what the television had said. The door and couch wouldn't hold them for long. Poke retreated to his bedroom.

Another thump. Outside the ghouls moaned in anticipation.

Poke's head was clear now. The rage and fear had subsided. He looked around his bedroom. That they would get in was inevitable. But maybe he could hide? If they couldn't find him maybe they'd leave?

Poke picked up the comforter that lay rumpled on his bed. He went into his closet and closed the door. Covering himself with the thick blanket he huddled on the floor, trying to black the world out of existence. He heard another thump and a crash.

The wailing of the dead crescendoed. They were about to feast.


End file.
